


Damn near perfect

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon Compliant, Fix-It, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, season 4 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:42:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: Sherlock finally confesses his feelings. John gets angry. They are idiots.





	Damn near perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea by johnlockshire on Tumblr.
> 
> Find me too on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/)

 

After putting Rosie to bed, John watches her from the doorway for a while, afraid to move, afraid to wake her up. He listens to her quiet breathing, watches her clenched fist next to her little head. There’s a pain in his chest, lingering. One day he’ll have to tell her what happened to her mother. How will she feel about Sherlock, then?

Because Sherlock has been… amazing, lately. He’s let them move back to Baker Street, even cleaned out the fridge. Moved his experiments to 221C. John knows it was Mrs Hudson who did most of the cleaning, but Sherlock had somehow babyproofed the entire appartment, even exaggerated a little. Rounded the corners of the kitchen table. Threw out the scary skull paining. Bought a huge television so Rosie could watch children’s shows.

_My life is damn near perfect now_ , John thinks, watching his daughter sleep. He quietly closes the door, and goes down the stairs. Jumps up from fright when he bumps into Sherlock. The detective is standing completely still, blood drained from his face, the moonlight from the window somehow perfectly framing his cheeckbones.

‘Christ, Sherlock. You scared me’, John hisses, and tries to move past him.

‘John, wait.’ The man puts his hand on John’s arm. 'There’s something… I have to say.’

Sherlock is clutching his violin in his right hand. _Odd, he hadn’t been playing._ He looks bewildered. John licks his lips. Sherlock puts the violin down, and stands almost uncomfortably close to John. Just breathes for a while, reminding John of Rosie. But Sherlock’s breathing is not peaceful. It’s… erratic. John opens his mouth, starts to say something, but Sherlock cuts him off.

'John. I… I love you.’

John’s stomach drops. He looks straight into Sherlock’s eyes, searches that pale face - it seems completely devoid of any emotion. John clenches and unclenches his fist. He can’t believe his friend would be so cruel to him.

'You… What? You fucking… what?’ John breathes. _Has Sherlock been reading my therapist’s notes_ , he suddenly realises with dread. He’s never said it out loud, never admitted his feelings, not even to her, he’s certain of it. But Sherlock, the man who knows everything, has surely deduced it, hasn’t he? Maybe even from the way John looks at him, barely even hiding it lately. Sherlock must have stolen Ella’s notes, saw the things unsaid, the awfully personal things between the lines, after Sherlock had… died. John had gone back to Ella a couple of times, in those darkest days. Choking on his words.

Sherlock seems even paler now, wide-eyed. Doesn’t appear to be breathing. _Good. This is not a joke_ , John thinks. _My life is not a fucking joke._

'John…’ Sherlock stutters. 'I…’ He swallows, that gorgeous adam’s apple bobbing down to taunt him, his neck exposed in the collar of his purple shirt. He wasn't even wearing that shirt earlier. _He must have deduced I like him best in that,_ John thinks, angrily. 'John. I love you.’

And John just loses it. Why is he making fun of him? John pushes Sherlock backwards, hard. The man hadn’t been expecting it, so he stumbles awkwardly, almost hitting the floor, but keeping upright by clutching at the wall. _No clever comeback, now._ Their eyes meet and the moment seems to last forever, to John. His fist is tightly closed. He catches Sherlock glancing at it, quickly.

'You. Utter. Cock’, John breathes. He can’t deal with this right now. So he quickly walks out in a few large steps, slams the door hard behind him when leaving Baker Street.

—  
  
It’s a few hours later when John has finally worked up the courage to go back. He’d walked across London for about half an hour, getting all worked up about how Sherlock would use his cursed feelings against him, make fun of him like that. Finally, he wasn’t able to stand the loud thoughts in his own head anymore and headed inside a random pub. Just went and sat there like a right loser. Drank a few pints. He knew he’d have to go back eventually. Rosie was there. He couldn’t stay away, but lord, did he want to. Did he not want to see Sherlock for a few days.

Now he’s walking up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, and his thoughts are back, louder than ever. He’s gonna tell Sherlock. How it’s the cruelest thing he’s ever done to to John, and he killed himself in front of him for god’s sake. How he doesn't want to see him again, yes, he’s grateful for letting him move back in after Mary’s death, but if he’s gonna be like that, John’s going to move out and _don’t even think about calling about a case for the next few months_. Yes, Sherlock is a sociopath, he’s told him many times before, but he should know by now this is not the way to deal with people’s feelings. _Not people. Friends._

John bursts through the door. Knows it’s not a surprise that he’s back, his loud footsteps weren’t hard to make a deduction from after all. _Deduce my fist against the damn door_ , John thinks, searching for Sherlock in the flat.

The detective is sitting in his chair, knees pulled up and arms folded around them, watching a cooking competition on the large television. _Not even looking up, that righteous bastard_. John moves in front of the screen, forcing Sherlock to look at him. But when he does, a terrible realisation dawns on John, cutting off his breathing.

Sherlock is crying.

Sherlock, the unmoving sociopath, whom he’s only ever seen fake cry – to manipulate suspects, to manipulate him in the train car with the bomb – is sitting on that chair, tears forming a quiet path down his cheeks. His eyes are red. There’s nothing loud or dramatic about the tears either, even. He’s not saying anything. Just looking up, with something close to fear in his eyes.

Neither of them says a word. John is stunned. Regrets the multiple beers he had. He needs a clear head for this. He’s not a genius detective, his mind is slow to come to conclusions as it is. The alcohol is not helping.

After a long, terrible silence, John turns off the television. He walks to his old chair, next to Sherlock’s, and turns it to face him. Sherlock doesn’t turn his chair, doesn't move. He’s still facing the television, a black screen. Shaking slightly. John thinks back about how he left him, about how he pushed him and the fear that came across Sherlock’s face then. An aching pain spreads from John’s stomach to his heart. Sherlock must have thought back about the morgue, in that moment. Yet he wasn’t even defending himself. Just waiting for the next hit to land.

'So’, John says. 'You really meant it then.’

Sherlock doesn’t even glance back to his friend. Only slowly nods his head. The tears have stopped coming, but they are still blinking on his cheeks.

_You really meant it then?_ Fuck, it sounds stupid, something only an idiot would say, and John wonders if he’s already slurring his words – but he hasn’t drank enough yet, has he? He’s at least clear-headed enough to know that, no, John is not good enough to be with Sherlock. He’d almost beat him up again, _for fuck’s sake_. When this beautiful man was baring his heart to him. Who even knows what John would have done, had he not found the man crying. Maybe he would have kicked the living shit out of him again. John can’t be with Sherlock, that’s a fact. He’s his abuser, after all.

John is quiet for a few minutes. Lets the awful truth sink in. He’s his abuser, and Sherlock doesn’t even know it. He just let himself get beat up, several times. John thinks back about the time Sherlock came back after being dead and he just… punched him. Sure, he’d deserved it – he’d killed himself in front of John, that was almost unforgivable. And he chose to come back like he was in some sort of comedy film, dressed as a waiter, making fun of his mustache. He’d deserved a little beating, surely? But, then again, Sherlock had just spent two years fighting Moriarty’s network by himself. And even though Sherlock would be careful to hide them, sometimes John could glimpse the scars on his back, under his collar. The wounds must have been raw still when he came back from his hiding, when John pushed him down onto the floor of that restaurant.

And then there was that time in the morgue. Sherlock was a junkie. You don’t beat up a junkie. (But, of course, John had beat up a junkie before. _We always saw it coming. But it was fun._ )

John closes his eyes. John is not deserving of Sherlock’s love, if that’s truly what he feels (he feels? John can’t allow himself to think like that, yet, can’t grasp the concept). John only hurts Sherlock, beats him. He just… can’t. He can’t. He gets up from his chair, doesn’t dare look at Sherlock anymore, who’s unmoving in his chair anyway, and John retreats to his room, to the sound of Rosie breathing in the crib near his bed, still peaceful, but now unbearably so.

—  
  
The next morning, John descends the stairs with Rosie in his arms. She’s slept until nine, that little angel. John hasn’t slept one bit. He steps into the kitchen and puts her into her high chair. Sherlock is already in the kitchen, his back turned to the both of them. He had stiffened after hearing them come in, but now relaxes his shoulders, turns, and very carefully looks up.

'I already made some’, Sherlock says slowly, but with foreced lightness, like he’s an actor in a play. He’s holding some sort of squished fruit mixture in a bowl. There’s a mess all over the counter. Pieces of fruit. Different bowls with different fruit purees in them. He must have been experimenting with them for a while. Quickly, Sherlock catches John’s gaze, then refocuses on Rosie.

John tries a little smile. He must act normally, now, and is glad Sherlock is making this effort. They maybe never even have to talk about this again, thank god. He might even be able to live here for a little while, until he finds his own place of course. So Sherlock can feel safe again in his own home.

'Thank you’, John says. Does that sound weird? Why is Sherlock even being so nice to him, after he was so cruel to him yesterday? His head hurts. Rosie rustles in her chair, she’s grabbed the little spoon near her and apparently decides to practise her drumming skills.

Sherlock steps closer, almost carefully. _Like he’s afraid of physical violence again_ , John realises with a pang in his chest. He steps aside, lets Sherlock move close to Rosie, proving that he trusts him, he can do this, feed his own godchild. This doesn’t have to change anything. _Please don’t let it change anything._

Sherlock puts down the bowl of food and reaches for the spoon in Rosie’s tiny little fist. After a little wriggling and some protesting, she lets go, allows Sherlock to put some food into her mouth. There are little airplane noises. It’s beautiful to watch, John thinks. He’s so loving with Rosie. So unlike Sherlock, who’s never been nice to anyone. _Anyone?_

'Dada’, she says, suddenly.

'Daddy’s over there’, Sherlock says, putting the spoon near Rosie’s mouth again. But she pushes it away. He’s leaning over her now, closely, trying to get her to eat just a little more.

'Dada!’ she says, putting her tiny hand on Sherlock’s cheek. 'Dada.’

Sherlock stiffens quickly, takes a step back, when the realisation dawns onto him. He looks at John, stuttering.

'I’m sorry, she’s never called me this before. She’s never done this, I swear. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

He’s visibly upset, putting the bowl on the kitchen table nearbly. John just can’t, anymore. He can’t believe Sherlock would think he’d be angry about this. Rosie is starting to talk, she’s said her first word, and it’s beautiful. John feels his face contorting with emotion, with pride, with something… else. He takes a step closer to Sherlock, who immediately leans back, into the kitchen table, trying to get away. John puts one hand on Sherlock’s arm.

'Stop, Sherlock. I’m not… angry. Rosie’s right.’

'What?’ Sherlock breathes nervously, fingers twitching. John leans even closer now.

'You’re like a father to her, you’ve been… amazing. You’ve been taking such good care of her, these past few months. She knows. She’s allowed to call you daddy.’

Sherlock is speechless. He’s not even breathing anymore. It reminds John of that time he came to ask him to be his best man, standing in this very kitchen, Sherlock frozen over, like a computer needing a reboot. Now he’s half sitting on the table. Staring.

'Sherlock…’

John licks his lips. He shouldn’t. _He shouldn.’t_

He leans into the man. Not quite bridging the distance. Giving Sherlock the chance to make the few last inches to his mouth, if he still wants to – after being treated so badly. _Please, let him still want to._

Suddenly, Sherlock pushes John away, hard. John stumbles backwards into the counter. It hurts. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, he’s breathing again, as if someone slapped him into existence.

'Why would you make fun of me like that?’ Sherlock says angrily. 'Why?’

John doesn’t even know how to respond. The realisation dawns onto him, how this must have come across to his friend.

'After all I did… I tried to act normally. I made Rosie the perfect meal for this morning. I… No. Why?’ Sherlock is lost for words. He’s never lost for words. He would outlive god trying to have the last word, after all.

Tears spring to John’s eyes. 'Sherlock, no…’

Sherlock moves closer, grabs John by the collar, pushes him against the kitchen counter. He’s radiating anger now. John has never seen him so angry. Sherlock grips his collar even tighter, and John closes his eyes. He’s ready to take a hit. He deserves it, after all. In a way, he’s glad Sherlock is finally fighting back. John tilts his head to make it easier for Sherlock to hit him square in the jaw. He’s waiting, eyes squeezed shut, waits for a long while.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens and it’s… strange. He opens his eyes carefully to see Sherlock’s face so close to him it makes his heart skip a few beats. Something has clicked in Sherlock’s mind, it seems. Fear is written across his face. Fear, and… something soft, something….

'John.’

That’s all he needs. John presses his lips to the detective’s, and he knows – it’s all he knows he’s ever gonna need.

His life is damn perfect now.


End file.
